Industriously looking to end the single life and sharing stories along the way

single

If you’re concerned about building romantic chemistry with someone, here’s a tip: FIGHT. A more poetic phrasing would be to say that light only comes from heat. (Perhaps you’re familiar with Heracleitus’ criticism of Homer’s pacifism.) Every conversation is performance art; think of it like composing music. Most memorable pieces underscore the fine line between tension and release; pain and pleasure; suspense and idyll. Harmless disputation charges adrenaline glands and endorphin levels, augmenting your appeal. To be sure, I’m not advising you to go all Donald Trump 2016 on them but if your conversation has been nothing but agreeable and innocent, you’ve only proven one thing and one measly thing only; that you’re safe. No one wants “safe” on the first few dates. “Safe” pays the bills and picks up the kids from soccer practice, sure, but are you there yet? Hopefully not. Instead, everyone wants to ride the bull before they let it graze their pasture. So, how do you instigate a little dissonance?

Say you’re at a diner and they order apple pie to go with their afternoon coffee. Now, sweet apple pie may be your favorite dessert in all existence. In fact, your Aunt Edna (bless her heart) may have expounded to you the delicacies of picking the freshest apples from the lush orchards of upstate New York, constructing the perfect crust, and sharing with you her secret weapon that sets her recipe apart (lemon zest?). You may, at first, want to unleash, as if in dissertation form, all these warm memories of loving apple pie as a kid. Or how your Aunt Edna (bless her heart, again) was the best pie maker in all the world and how your date would have savored every bite of her pie and how you would love to show her the recipe yourself one day so that Aunt Edna’s memory could live on through her perfected palate.

But no, not today.

Today, you fucking hate that vile shit. In fact, how could they even order such a ghastly dish to ruin their coffee on such a sunny day? You were actually having a pleasant date until THEY had to invidiously bankrupt it. Can you believe their insolvency? This is their response to your comportment? Jesus! Have they no common decency to themselves or – at the very least – human courtesy to YOU?!?!?

No, today you will disgrace that apple pie in front of the very makers whom labored tirelessly over it, hoping to serve it to an abject customer until your dying breath. Then, and only then, will your date engulf their overpriced pie. But even in that seemingly “safe” moment, they will think of your mortified self. Oh yes, yes they will.

And that is why they’ll text you back the next day. And that is why you’ll get another date.

Excuse the sleazy title but I’d like to offer some counterweight to the common tone of my narrative and provide a list of male shortcomings. There will be “basket of deplorables” level generalizations but I trust you’ve come prepared with a grain of salt and an internal laugh track waiting to be cued.

In reverse order:

13) Female orgasm is superior. Depending on whom you ask and how they classify their O moments, there are anywhere between 3 and 11 different types of female orgasms. Not only that but – on average – men have shorter orgasms (5-22 seconds) compared to their female counterparts (~20 seconds). And while I’ve been the cause of many, the aftereffects never cease to amaze me. The first time I heard “Holy shit, I can’t even move right now” after a long session, I asked her if I should call an ambulance. And I was serious.

12) Suck at staying in touch. Some men don’t buy into the whole “brotherly love” culture and unless you’re sharing some activity with your boys (e.g., baseball league), you’ll inadvertently lose touch with those once close to you. In short, we often disservice ourselves and our relationships.

11) Stupid immaturity. Often disguised as boyish and endearing, our silliness can get us into trouble as an adult. My cryptic password at work used to be BigTittedBJs69. (I was in one of my sarcastic moods.) It wasn’t a problem until I got locked out of my desktop and had to forward ISD my access credentials so they could unlock my account. “I’m sorry, was that Big Titted Bee Jays Seventy-nine? Oh, I see. It’s sixty-nine. Gotcha.” #LessonLearned

10) Moreover, we squander our time. Whether it was Wilde or Shaw that came up with “Youth is wasted on the young,” it comes as no surprise that this tidbit was uttered by a male. Sometimes it’s the unwillingness to advance to the next step in a relationship, other times it’s becoming complacent with regular sex, or perhaps it’s overstaying your welcome at a job where you enter blowjob-related passwords everyday. Some of us aren’t future-oriented and we’re the worse for it.

9) Misunderstanding people; women in particular. Although not everyone is easy to read, most sensible humans exhibit repetitive patterns. Patterns can be elucidated and used to predict tones of behavior. It’s with this that I hope we can extirpate idiotic gibes like “What are you, on your period?” Or “You should lose some weight” and so on. This goes further than uttering dumb shit; it’s the injustice of not bothering to understand those around you.

We spend innumerable hours fixated on lofty ideas that it comes as a great relief – not to mention surprise – to relish in moments of ineffable and tangible beauty. Why is it that we can’t simply frame these mental photographs? The mere attempt to do so would make us all abject, like an actor misplacing his lines on opening night. To truly sink into these ephemeral periods, without the aid of psilocybin, one requires another person to uphold and testify to this feeling of ecstasy. After all, love is a doing word.

I have this image in my head that I can’t shake; something that would soften even the most broad-backed misanthropic pessimist – a role I’m no stranger to. The context of the image can be summed up by a quote from the Metta Sutta. (If you’ve never experienced this objective sentiment, give it time.)

“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world — above, below, and across — unhindered, without ill will, without enmity.” – The Buddha

What I see in this image is nothing but the geographical curvature of a lover’s hip. An intoxicating instrument for lust, no doubt, but in this state, I’m only studying the arc and bow of someone I love, as if I were sketching it down to print. How do the shadows cast depth? Can I smell the oils on her skin? Am I able to mold this image in my mind before grazing my fingers gently over her body? Part of dining out at an upscale restaurant is feasting your eyes on your meal before you actually feast. This is that moment and I intend to seize it to the best of my ability.

Lying naked and winded, fresh out of cigarettes – kicking the habit anyway – on your bed as you begged for another story with your ear pressed to my chest to feel every vocal vibration, we came to appreciate how affectedly we loved previous lovers. It was another narrative woven into our garbs but it was a best-seller. Doesn’t that count for anything?

The stories I told on days like those could fill volumes, although it was difficult to pinpoint the reason for your curious penchant. Maybe you simply enjoyed the sound of my voice or wanted to damn the silence in the room. Surely you wouldn’t request the same from a hubristic drunkard.

Although our rich companionship is often aggrandized in my head, the intensity and pathos still feels real. I now realize why you asked for a tall tale or factoid; you wanted all of me. After giving myself to you physically, you only wished to couple these ephemeral moments with something to take away. I’ll never have a chance to say it outside of this frivolous blog but I miss that and I’ll find it again. Only this time, I’ll be sure to reciprocate the offer.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. Is it my lurid sense of humor? After all, who wouldn’t embrace the gentle warmth of a stranger’s hand as you ascend to the gallows? Are you a vagrant and see that in me as well? I’m not the best looking but compared to old Boxcar Willy, I suppose I can hold my own. Maybe it’s a different flavor of independence; insolence and dissidence. Both kinds are easy to spot out – no need for smoke signals when there’s a fire of visible grandeur. On the contrary, perhaps you see something that isn’t there – a quality I’ve never possessed – and you’re unequivocally convinced it’s the answer to all your prayers. Who needs a God when there’s a temporal resource on speed dial? Number 4, to be exact.

Or, could it be that you’re attached to my illusive traits? Although mercurial and tacitly agreed upon, it feels like a blood pact. Meredith Brooks cashed in on being a “bitch,” so it’s been proven in theory and practice. Chaos can be, and often times is, majestic. That said, everyone has a threshold and, consequently, an end date. I just hope we can speak candidly when that time comes. To revise, and partially reverse, a pithy sentiment: Second chances should be given to everyone who deserves them.

Olivia and I placidly shook our heads. Familiar with the unconventional ways of my friend Noam, I knew this conversation was going places. However, I had no way of knowing whether its destination would deter innocent-looking Olivia; someone we had just met at this party. It was obvious that my accomplice and I were fighting for Olivia’s attention by passing around funny stories all night. May the most chivalrous man win her over as well as her number.Noam eagerly continued.

“Well, you know that it’s when you realize that you’re dreaming and you can control some things? Anyway, I had one last night. I was walking around Manhattan or something when I noticed that I was just dreaming. So I started flying around, looting some stores, having fun and such.”

“Did you have heat vision too?” I quipped. #DCcomics

“So I’m flying around when I spot two women by the park. I flew over, knocked one to the ground and landed on the other. Then I just started raping her while her friend is yelling and screaming at me to stop. And I said, ‘You shut up! Just SHUT UP! Or I’ll do you too!'”

Noam gave pause to lick his lips before finishing. “Then I did. Then I raped her too.”

A fireworks display worthy of the 4th of July went off in my head. I was abject. Dammit Noam, you twisted fuck. I need to find some new friends. How the hell did I live with this guy for a whole year? Things were looking promising with Olivia until you went off the rails! Even Houdini himself couldn’t get out of this one.

Peering over at Olivia, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Overcome with majesty, she was utterly fascinated by this dream and wanted to hear more. Come to find out, she’s a spiritual dancer (whatever that means) and a self-trained reiki healer who happens to be obsessed with the meaning behind dreams. She pridefully claimed that her extensive dream journal was well over 100 pages long. Although Freud wrote in great length on the subject, making several revisions to The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), she was no Freud. Whether her reasoning was spurious or not, one thing was clear, if it felt right to her, it was right.

You can probably piece together the rest of her personality and beliefs. Here are a few things I instantly assessed without ever having to ask:

Faithful over skeptical

Reads her horoscope daily

Possibly a little solipsistic

Ambitiously gleeful and positive

Has shoddy critical thinking faculties

Thinks everything happens for a reason

She’s more emotionally “intelligent” than traditionally intelligent

Believes in tarot cards, palm reading, psychics, mystics, occultists, and the man by Penn Station that squeezes goat testicles while foretelling your future

Noam had won her heart via a dream of sexual abuse and aeronautics. How could the subject of rape, arguably the most traumatizing calamity a woman could ever experience, immersed in the context of a lucid dream not pose as a red flag? I suppose I was the odd man out on this one since she invited him to her next recital and they’re going on a date next weekend.

Don’t let my irreverent sense of humor fool you. I wasn’t putting Olivia down simply because she’s spiritual. I’m somewhat spiritual myself but it’s a pretty wide term and she embodied all the lazy stereotypes of it. Also, my friend isn’t an abuser or psycho – he has a way of thinking not just outside the box but that there may not be a box at all. Watch him marry this girl and tell her folks how they met. Surely better than a Tinder love story, wouldn’t you agree?

It’s not uncommon to hear the sappy phrase “All you need is love” from a confidant, the radio, a movie (e.g., Love Actually and Independence Day), some amateur blog or mawkish greenhorn. This simplistically cheerful sentiment has permeated the world, along with its cousin, the peace sign. Akin to most life lessons we begrudgingly learn, this Beatles reference is too transparent and ironically unfaithful.

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Beingin love is a great start but it’s everything after that point that truly matters. The difference between beingin love and loving someone is narrow but deep. The former comes naturally (thus, more often) and the latter requires conscious effort. The best representation of this I’ve come across was a philosophical essay I read several years ago. In it, the sense of being in love was compared to finding a perfectly lush tree in an alluring meadow. To your eyes, this tree is sturdy and symmetrical. Going on this alone – this image you have in your mind – you deem it worthy to invest your time and energy in it. However, over time you become slightly disillusioned but still intrigued. This leads up to a point where, now faced with your greatest adversity yet, the once captivating meadow is scorched barren and the tree is unearthed. This is a critical moment because sometimes, after everything is said and done, a new tree begins to germinate. If something can survive at this point, perhaps it is meant to.

While there is nothing shallow about that ordeal, it nevertheless surprised me that it may not be enough. If you have ever read about determinism or the nature of free will, randomness or uncaused events is a major factor in everyday life. Let’s say that on the day of your big soirée, it rains and consequently, less people show up. Before this chance event occurred, everything was in line for you to have full attendance. I find love to be like this; feelings are one component but external contributors matter just as much. Often times, it’s unfortunate spouts of randomness that acts as one’s impetus to make unplanned changes. Whether such changes can be unequivocally accepted by all parties is another matter entirely.

Although I can sense a paroxysm of head-shaking from readers, everything doesn’t necessarily happen for a reason, you can’t necessarily do everything you set your mind to, and love depends on more than itself alone. If provided a suitable environment, your tree of love can become whatever you want it to be. And it’s in that sense that I remain, at least in part, a hopeless romantic.